Feis Festival

Founder of the Mean Fiddler empire and curator of today‘s festival, Vince Power is something of a new-age Peter Grant. His stocky and pugnacious stature is reflective of his frequently praised antagonistic work ethic. As an Irish man, Power knows better than anyone that the emerald island has scoured its influence onto the surface of modern music since Gutherie was kicking dust down the box-cart trails of Kerouac America.

To mark 21 years since the introduction of the deceased Fleadh events which ran in North London between 1990 and 2004, Power and his clique of efficient staff are putting on an Irish influenced anniversary event. In a relatively organized manor, Feis begins in a dignified fashion…

The Waterboys make an appearance on the main stage at 3pm. Prior to entry, Mike Scott’s microphone height is precisely measured to ensure the infamously fastidious front man doesn’t throw a Cher Lloyd and declare himself a worthless diva. With considerable enthusiasm the Boys excitedly throw themselves into things. Their fiddle-aided folk reeks of the untouched sea air, musky and brutally honest, they burst out the fondly digested ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsy’ and ‘Fisherman Blues’ before ‘The Whole of the Moon’ gets a brief airing, just as it's rushed onto a Father’s Day Hits CD.

Brian Fallon and the Gaslight Anthem chaps are left underwhelmed by a seemingly odd placement. Their quarter Irish roots do the best they can in rickety conditions, kicking through blue-collar Americana-punk from their first three albums. ‘High and Lonesome’, ‘Diamond Church Street Choir’ and ‘59 Sound’ are shot from the powerhouse barrel but the damp and sodden sound fails to travel further than Fallon’s nose, and despite their admirable persistence, Gaslight are lost in the wind.

With the weather continuing to hold out, the smaller two stages are abandoned in favour of catching a distant glimpse of Bob Dylan. Although unable to see his grizzly, weathered features, when his viscose growl grazed into ‘Gonna Change My Way of Thinking’ and soon after, ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue’, Dylan's ravaged tone becomes hard to consume.

Cheers erupt during harmonica moments to let Dylan know all aspects of his musicianship are still held in high regard. ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ is almost unrecognisable, however, as the music is cut up and disjointed in order to accommodate his growing lack of vocal conviction and, it seems, his inability to conjure up sizeable verses.

The lyrical potency of ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ obviously doesn’t stab with quite the same fervour as it did back in Greenwich Village, but we all expected something slightly off key anyway. It’s difficult to remain grounded when watching Dylan. His importance is obviously immeasurable, but as this moment goes, his languid performance tells us more about exhaustion and old age than it does about rock and roll.

Compared to other Dylan shows, we’re treated to a rather hit filled set. ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ and ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ are all present and to see those performed by the hand that crafted them is something to take from the rubble.

‘It’s amazing that he’s 70 and he can still pull a crowd’ some plonker remarks nearby. Resisting a full-frontal slap I remain content knowing that that person is in fact an idiot. Trying to ignore my elated experiences watching Springsteen and Neil Young I accept that people age differently, and a mixture of chain-smoking, drug taking and fast living forces some into hunched images of their former selves. Sure, it’s good to see Bob today, especially when he cracks a slim smile, but it’s a one time event that I'll never repeat. Ever.